


Atone

by Saber_Wing



Series: New Beginnings [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Whump, Family Drama, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Max is actually a sweetie, Varric has basically adopted him, he must be protected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 02:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17356862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saber_Wing/pseuds/Saber_Wing
Summary: Maxwell Trevelyan is under the impression his family couldn't give two shits whether or not he'd died at the Conclave.He's wrong.





	Atone

“My Lord Herald?”

Maxwell looked up from the letter he was trying – and failing – to write. He had already destroyed several sheets of parchment attempting to find the right words. So far, he hadn't come up with anything better than: _'Dear Mother and Father, I'm not dead.'_

This, therefore, was an unwelcome distraction. He scowled, throwing his quill-pen down with a disgusted sigh. A scout stood in the entryway, shuffling his feet.

Max took a breath, making a visible effort to soften his demeanor. His sour mood wasn't this poor sod's fault.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Apologies for disturbing you at such an early hour, Master Trevelyan, but there's a man making a ruckus at the gates. He claims to be your family.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Another one? That's the third this month.”

“Yes, well...” The scout shifted uncomfortably. “This one is rather insistent he be allowed inside Haven. I...thought you might want to be informed, Your Worship.”

These impostors were persistent. Max wished he knew where they were all coming from, so he could tell them not to bother. No Trevelyan would ever waste time and resources coming here – certainly not for anything as unseemly as a 'heartfelt' reunion.

Max gripped the bridge of his nose, heaving a put-upon sigh. “All right, I'll handle it. Thank you.” The scout nodded and fisted a hand over his heart, exiting the room.

Max straightened the collar of his tunic, squaring his shoulders as he strode toward the gates. No sooner had he slammed through them that a distant argument drifted to his ears.

One of the voices was unfamiliar, but the other...

“I apologize for the inconvenience, Serah...”

“Trevelyan. Lord Trevelyan of Ostwick.”

The Inquisition guard's voice was tired and flat – much like a man who'd spent the whole week making the same argument. “I understand you've come a long way, 'Lord Trevelyan of Ostwick,' but it changes nothing. I must clear it with my superiors before I can let you through.”

“I understand you have rules. I'm happy to camp out here with my men until further notice, but won't you at least tell me if my brother is _safe?_ If he _is_ here, you must know of him. He's the Herald of Andraste. Or...so I'm told.”

The guard stood his ground, crossing his arms over his chest. “With all due respect, Your Lordship, if I believed every degenerate who said he was related to the Herald, he'd probably be dead right now.”

Tobias Trevelyan opened his mouth to reply, freezing when he caught sight of Max. His shoulders sagged, as if a weight had been lifted from them. “There you are.” He closed the distance between them in three long strides, wrapping Max in a crushing embrace. “Oh, thank the Maker.”

Maxwell blinked, reeling with shock. He waved off the guards, all drawing their swords against the stranger 'assaulting' their Herald. He allowed himself to be crushed into his brother's plate-mail, too taken aback to protest. The archer wheezed his reply when his brother finally released him. “What are you doing here?”

Tobias scoffed, looking mildly offended. “What am I _doing_ here? I thought you were dead!”

Max snorted. “Give Matthew my condolences, he'll be dreadfully disappointed.”

Tobias pursed his lips, giving Max an inscrutable look, but he didn't correct him, which was all the answer he needed. “Our parents are sick with worry. Tell me you've at least written to them.”

“It's...” Max rubbed the back of his head, grimacing. “On my to-do list.”

Tobias pinched the bridge of his nose. “Max,  _really._ ”

The archer at least had the decency to look sheepish. “I'm working on it.”

“How difficult is it to write, _'Dear Mother and Father, I'm not dead.'_ ”

“That's...actually all I've got so far.”

Tobias released a chuckle – one that sounded dangerously close to a sob.

Max stared, wide-eyed.

Max's brothers – Matthew and Tobias – were natural politicians. They could slip into facades as effortlessly as a pair of shoes, and usually reveled in it. For that mask to slip, even for a moment, was simply unheard of. An unpardonable lapse of control.

Max loved his family – despite everything – but he hated those masks. Hated everything they stood for. Toby was the only one who tried to understand. He'd even gone out of his way to defend Max, whenever anyone sought to exploit it. The middle Trevelyan son had a soft spot for Max – one that Matthew continually brought up with measured disdain.

Still, a Trevelyan wasn't emotional. They could be displeased, if the occasion required it. They could be cold, calculating. Maybe even warm, so long as it didn't leave them in a vulnerable position. But emotional? Never.

Toby wasn't being _emotional,_ not over Max _._ He couldn't be. The very notion was ridiculous.

“Oh, never mind. It doesn't matter now.” Tobias smiled tremulously, gathering Max into his arms again; this time, the younger man returned the embrace. Tears pressed at the backs of his eyes.

The older man pulled away, gripping Max by both shoulders. “Did you really think I wouldn't care?”

 _Of course not._ The proper response sprang to his lips, curling on the tip of his tongue. The words caught in his throat instead; settled there, in a sickening lump.

His brother's face fell, for a split second that – for a Trevelyan – may as well have been an eternity.

Maxwell blanched. “Toby...”

“Don't.” The older man raised a palm, pained. “I've only myself to blame.”

The archer narrowed his eyes. He wanted to unpack that last statement a bit more, but something else caught his attention as Tobias lowered his hand. Green and yellow bruising peppered his knuckles.

“What are those?” Max frowned, gesturing to the marks. “Did you run into trouble on your way here?”

“The odd demon here or there.” Tobias shrugged, as if dangerous fade-creatures weren't a big deal. “But no. These are of a... _personal_ nature. Our dear brother thought I was daft, rounding up enough men to come traipsing down here after you. I disagreed. Loudly.”

“I...” Maxwell blinked owlishly. “...I'm sorry, what?”

“We had a disagreement at a charity gala. It came to blows.”

“...this was in front of people?”

Toby nodded stiffly. He sounded both oddly proud and mildly horrified. “Half the noble houses in the Free Marches had a representative there. Naturally, you were the main topic of conversation. Matthew was rather... _callous_ in his speculation of events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I...may have overreacted just a tad.”

Max couldn't believe what he was hearing. He spluttered, running his fingers through his hair. “Hold on. Let me get this straight. You...lost your shit and punched our brother in the face. At a public event.”

“Yes, dear heart,” Tobias scoffed, a light blush coloring his cheeks. “Please don't make me say it again.”

 _Dear heart._ An old pet name mother used to have for them when they were little. Maxwell's breath caught. No one had called him that since...

He couldn't remember.

“I don't get it.” Max blinked, perplexed. “Why?” 

“Oh, for...” Tobias blew an exasperated breath between his teeth. “Because he is a pompous, useless waste of existence with all the compassion of a used chamber pot.” He reached out, caressing Max's chin with a thumb. “And because you are my brother, and when I thought you were dead, little else mattered.”

“Oh.” Max replied, struggling to keep the tremor from his voice.

Judging from the worried expression his brother leveled at him, he didn't think he'd entirely succeeded. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn't swallow, no matter how hard he tried. His breath caught.

No. Nope. This was not happening. Max absolutely, one-hundred-percent was not going to cry. He refused.

As luck would have it, Haven's gates chose that moment to slam open. Ambassador Montilyet glided toward them, immaculate as ever. Her face, however, was a storm cloud as she approached the brothers, dipping into a flawless curtsy. “My Lord Trevelyan, please allow me to apologize on behalf of the Inquisition, for your absolutely _atrocious_ reception.”

“No need. Please excuse my terrible manners. It is I who dropped in on _you_ unannounced.” Tobias took her hand. “Tobias Trevelyan. It is an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady...”

“Montilyet. The pleasure is mine, I assure you.” Josephine smiled graciously.

Toby inclined his head, slinging an arm around Max's shoulders. “And thank you ever so much for taking such good care of Max for me. I've been positively beside myself.”

Casual words, to an outside observer. They hit Max like a ton of bricks. He cleared his throat as they entered Haven, alarmed when his vision blurred. His chest tightened, breath hitching despite his best efforts.

Panic rose up to choke him.

Oh.

Oh, _no._

He needed to excuse himself. Fast.

Josephine offered a tour of Haven, which Toby wholeheartedly accepted. Luckily for Max, they were locked pretty tightly in conversation. It allowed him to draw his arm back discreetly, wiping at the moisture building beneath his eyes.

_Breathe, Max. You can do this._

For once, the archer was grateful for his noble upbringing. He engaged them both mindlessly for a time, smiling and nodding at all the right pauses. He managed to keep it together long enough to excuse himself at the first opportunity.

Max ducked into an empty tent, clamping a hand over his mouth as the sobs rose up to choke him. He couldn't believe this. He hadn't wept in years – hadn't dared to, but now, the tears crashed over him like a tidal wave. He fought to stifle the sobs, biting his lip so hard, he tasted blood.

Every impossible event since the Temple of Sacred Ashes all came rushing in on him at once. The Conclave. Waking in an unfamiliar cell—bound, shackled, blades at his throat. Accused of murder, when he'd never wanted to be there in the first place. This fucking hole in his hand, reminding him with every breath he took that he should be dead.

No one would care if he _was_ dead. The Inquisition only did because he could close rifts.

And yet, there had been something in Toby's eyes, in his trembling smile. In the way he held Max, as if he were afraid to let go. He wasn't sure what, didn't have much to compare it to. But there had been _something._

Was this what it was like to feel loved?

He had no idea how much time passed as he sat there, helpless tears streaming down his cheeks. Eventually, however, voices drifted in from outside the tent, and he froze, breathless. Terrified.

“ _Something I can help you with, friend?”_

Varric. Had the dwarf heard his cries and come to investigate?

Another voice – Tobias – chuckled, though it sounded strained, even from inside the tent. _“I seem to have misplaced my brother. I don't suppose you've seen him, by chance? Answers to Max. Herald of Andraste...or so I'm told.”_

“ _Can't say I have. I'll tell him you're looking for him though.”_

“ _I appreciate that, Serah...”_

“ _Varric. Just Varric, no 'Serah.' Makes me sound too respectable. I have a reputation to uphold.”_

Max didn't hear Toby's reply – didn't care, either. A few more moments passed before Varric slid inside the tent, securing the flaps shut tightly behind him.

“He's gone. You can relax.”

Max exhaled shakily. When he'd finally gathered the courage to drag his eyes up to meet Varric's, he found only compassion in the dwarf's gaze.

Varric rested a hand on his shoulder, voice soft. “You okay?”

“I...yeah. Thank you.” He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic. “Maker, you must think I'm pathetic.”

Varric scoffed. “Why, because you were crying? I'm surprised it took as long as it did. I was actually starting to worry.”

Max sniffled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Kid, you fell out of the sky with a hole in your hand, then became the next Andraste. Not crying about that at least once seems mildly unhealthy.”

Max scoffed, accepting the handkerchief Varric offered with a bit of skepticism. He didn't understand how the dwarf could be so comfortable with such a raw display of emotion. If anyone found him like this back home, he'd never hear the end of it.

Varric shook his head. “You do realize you bottle things up tighter than an apothecary, right?”

Max released a watery chuckle. “Where I come from, that's kind of a mandatory skill.”

Varric sat across from him, patting the ground beside him. “Wanna talk about it? I'm a good listener.”

Max hesitated, but in the end, did as he was told – he scooted across the tent next to Varric, wrapping his arms around his torso. The words spilled from his lips so quickly, it was almost alarming.

“I was sent to the Conclave because I'm expendable. I didn't think it would matter much to my family whether or not I died there. They might mourn me in their own way, but behind closed doors. Definitely not enough to come check on me.”

Varric eyed him knowingly. “And now your brother is here: traipsing through demon-infested shit-country to get to you.”

Max nodded emphatically. “Through the mages, and the templars, and...there's a _fuck_ ton of demons, Varric! Why would he brave _demons_?”

Varric hummed. “Sounds an awful lot like what someone who loves you would do.”

“I _know._ ”

“And you don't know what to do with that.”

“No. No, I don't.” Max's heart hammered in his chest, threatening to burst straight out of it. He was so anxious, he thought he might actually throw up. But some part of him felt liberated, spilling his guts to Varric – to _anyone –_ like this.

“They don't do 'feelings' back in Ostwick, I take it? Talking about this must be weird for you.”

Max shrugged. He tried to smile. “What can I say? You have one of those faces.”

Varric chuckled. They sat together for a time, Max struggling to compose himself. When he thought he had a tight enough handle on his emotions again, he turned to the dwarf.

“How do I look – are my eyes red?”

Varric gazed into his face. “Maybe a little, but I wouldn't worry about it.” The dwarf patted his shoulder.

“I'm a Trevelyan, Varric. We _always_ worry about it.”

“Well, don't. You're fine.”

“If you say so.” Max grimaced, worrying his lip between his teeth. “And Varric?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

The dwarf smiled, regarding him kindly. “Any time, kid.”

“And _please_ don't mention this to anyone. Especially Toby.”

Varric mimed locking his lips, then throwing away the key. “This never happened.”

“I guess I should go make an appearance, before Cullen misses me and organizes a search party.” Maxwell winced, standing up and straightening his clothing. “You sure I look okay?”

Varric laughed, giving him a little push toward the entrance of the tent. “Stop worrying! Nobody gets lynched for taking a few minutes to themselves. Nobody has to know what you were doing.”

“Ugh, you're right.” Max blew a breath between his teeth. “This is stupid. I'm going, I'm going.”

Max could still hear Varric laughing behind him as he left. He smiled, shaking his head as he went. Crying made his head hurt, but there was some part of him that felt oddly relieved. That was new.

He made his way through Haven to the Chantry, waving to a few passersby as he went. He figured if everyone was going to gather to fret over him, it would be there. Max stopped just outside the war room, hearing voices issuing from within.

“ _....and I must again apologize for the way you were treated upon arrival, Lord Trevelyan.”_

Josephine's voice, with mild irritation.

“ _Please don't trouble yourself. I'm relieved your men seem to take my brother's safety so seriously, Commander Cullen. I could have been the King of Ferelden, and your man wouldn't have budged.”_

“ _I stand by my orders, and my soldiers who follow them. There are many who would claim relation to the Herald, only to get close to him. We've_ _had_ _a few such claims of late. It worries me. I've tried posting a guard on him, but he won't hear of it.”_

Max rolled his eyes, taking that as his cue to enter. “Cullen, for the last time, I do not need a bodyguard.”

Josephine, Cullen, and Tobias were all seated around the table; the maps had been put away, likely to hide their movements from the stranger in their midst.

“I don't think I agree.” Tobias frowned, looking back at Cullen. “Have there been attempts on his life?”

Cullen crossed his arms over his chest, a furrow in his brow. “Not yet, but it's likely to happen. And without him, we've no one to close the rifts. It makes him a very high-profile target, even without the Divine's murder hanging over his head.”

“I've brought plenty of men with me, I could easily assign some of them to his command, if he'll allow it.”

Max bristled. “ _No,_ he will not allow it. And if you could please stop referring to _him_ in the third person, _he_ would very much appreciate it.”

Tobias held both arms out in front of him, in a placating gesture. “Now, now, Maxwell. Don't be daft. We hardly went anywhere unescorted back home. I don't see how this is any different. Quite to the contrary – guards seem more prudent than ever.”

“Just because I'm suddenly important to you, doesn't mean my feelings on the matter have changed! The people who have joined the Inquisition sacrificed everything to be here. I will not be seen parading around the encampment with a personal guard, like some fragile little lordling. You came here to see for yourself that I'm not dead, and I'm not. I'm still alive. You can stop feeling guilty. It's a little late for you to start caring what happens to me now that I've already died _once._ ”

Tobias flinched. A secret, ugly part of Max was pleased by that. Josephine and Cullen exchanged an uneasy glance – this conversation had just gone deeper than talk of theoretical bodyguards, and they all knew it.

Tobias got haltingly to his feet, rubbing a hand over his face. “My...sincerest apologies, friends, but might I have a moment to speak with my brother alone?”

Josephine rose with a grace that Max admired, even under the circumstances. “Of course. Please, make yourself at home, my Lord Trevelyan. And again, welcome to Haven. I will be in my office, should you require anything.” She took Cullen's arm and all but dragged him from the room, shutting the door, and locking it behind her.

Max took a shaky breath, unable to look his brother in the eye. “That...wasn't what I wanted to say.”

“But you did mean it.”

Maxwell's silence was all the answer Tobias needed. He sighed, bowing his head.

“I...know I haven't been the best brother to you, Max, or even a good one, but...hearing what happened at the Conclave...” Toby's voice cracked. “It broke me. I never knew I'd so thoroughly understand the phrase: _'too little, too late.'_ ”

Max jerked his head up, heart in his throat.

“Then I heard about the Herald of Andraste, and I thought I might have a chance to make things right.” He released a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “That sounds rather more self-serving out loud than it did in my head, but it's true. And few things have ever shamed me quite like hearing you'd died, never knowing how much I loved you.”

Max jerked back, as if he'd been slapped. “You can't mean that.”

“What, that I love you?”

Max covered his mouth with his hand; there it was again. _I love you._ Words he hadn't heard in over a decade. When he dared to glance up at Tobias – vision blurred with tears – the shame he found there was staggering.

“I do. I'm sorry I've ever given you cause to doubt it.”

Max managed to make it to a chair before his knees buckled – he collapsed heavily into it, trembling, head bowed. A Trevelyan was steadfast, strong. They did not break. They did not falter. They did not fall to pieces at their brother's feet over a simple four-letter word.

Tobias crouched in front of him, taking his chin in his hand. “I love you.”

A sob tore from Max's lips – he couldn't help it.

“I love you. I'm sorry.” Toby's voice was thick in his ear as he leaned forward, taking Max into his arms for the third time that day. “I'm _so_ sorry.”

Max clung to him. Part of him wanted to pull away – to run, hide. Find a hole and bury himself in it. The younger, more selfish part, never wanted it to end. How many nights had he hidden under his covers, feeling alone and unloved, wishing for this exact thing? For someone, anyone, to give an ounce of a shit that he was alive? He wanted to _be_ something to someone – something other than the third Trevelyan son, or Matthew's youngest brother.

Now he _was._ If Tobias was to be believed, he always had been. Didn't Max deserve to bask in that, even just a little?

“Now about those bodyguards...” Tobias said it in all seriousness, though there was a note of teasing in his tone.

Max sniffled, with a watery chuckle. “The answer is still no.”

“All right then, how about this?” Tobias pulled back far enough to gaze into Max's face. “What if _I_ followed you around?”

He blinked. Of all the things he'd expected his brother to say, that hadn't been one of them. “Why would you do that?”

Tobias rubbed the bridge of his nose. “To _protect_ you, dear heart. That _is_ typically what a bodyguard does, is it not?”

Max blinked at him, perplexed. “ _You_ can't be my bodyguard. Are you insane?”

“Whyever not?” Tobias sighed. “Humor me, won't you? Let me look after you.” He reached out again, tracing the puckered scar running along Max's jaw. “Might make up for the times I didn't.”

Maxwell winced, knowing precisely which time he was referring to. “That...wasn't your fault.”

“I certainly didn't do anything to stop him.”

The archer smiled hesitantly. “Yeah, but you _did_ punch him in the face before you left, so...we're even?”

“I was tempted to do more than just that, believe me.” Something angry and dark crossed Toby's expression – Max had never seen it there before.

The younger man rubbed his scar. He remembered the event with a bit of discomfort: gritting his teeth, trying not to panic at the sight of his own blood. Matthew, pale-faced and shaken, looking as young as Max felt. True, things had become even worse between them after that, but still...

Max averted his eyes. “I don't think he actually meant to hurt me.”

Toby crossed his arms over his chest. “That isn't at all the point. I'm getting off track, though. Come now, little brother. Let me protect you. I'm good with a sword, no one will think oddly of an older brother tagging along with his younger, and it eliminates the need of that personal guard you're so worried about.”

The argument sounded so earnest, almost _pleading,_ that Max caved, with a little sigh of defeat. “Fine. But you get to tell Josephine. She might actually have a stroke. Cullen will be pleased, though. He's been making the bodyguard argument since I _got_ here.”

“Oh, I know what you're thinking. I'm not father's 'heir,' I'm the spare, it'll be fine.” Another thought seemed to occur to Tobias. He rubbed his chin, pensive. “Of course, I probably can't be with you _every_ second of the day. We'll have to establish a rotation with someone else, for my off hours.”

Max scowled. “Don't push it. I agreed to you, nobody else.”

Tobias laughed. “All right, all right, but I'll convince you yet.” He wagged a finger at Max. “For now, I'll take what I can get.”

Max shook his head, exasperated, as Tobias led him out of the room, one arm behind his back.

All this touching made Max a bit twitchy, truth be told. He half expected their father to round a corner, and ask what the bloody hell they were on about. Public displays of affection weren't a thing Trevelyans did – not even casual ones.

But Max had always wished things were different. Somehow, Tobias realized this. He smiled at Max, if a bit awkwardly, but did not break contact. His heart soared.

They ran into Varric outside the Chantry, looking very pleased with himself. The dwarf inclined his head toward Max, addressing Toby. “Found your missing person, I see.”

“Indeed.” Tobias smiled. “And I won't be letting him out of my sight any time soon, if this Herald of Andraste business is as dangerous as I'm hearing.”

“I'll drink to that. No really, drinks later, 'Herald's Rest,' on me.”

Toby raised an eyebrow. “You have a _tavern_ named after you?”

Maxwell's cheeks grew hot. He averted his eyes. “I asked them not to do that.”

Varric laughed, slapping Max's calf. He turned his head back toward Tobias, a question in his gaze. “You sticking around?”

“So long as he'll have me.”

Varric seemed pleased. “Glad to hear it. He's a good kid – needs people on his side.”

Maxwell huffed. “What is it with you people, and talking about me as if I'm not here?”

The dwarf smiled, shaking his head. He turned his gaze not on Max, however, but Tobias.

Both men were taken aback by the intensity with which Varric fixed his eyes on the older Trevelyan. “I'm a professional younger brother myself, so I know how it feels, not being able to rely on someone who _should_ have your back. Do us both a favor, and don't let him down. I'm an easy-going guy. I'd hate to have to do something about it.”

Maxwell's jaw dropped.

Tobias pursed his lips, regarding Varric with something akin to respect. After a few heartbeats, he nodded, his reply somber. “I will certainly try my damnedest.”

“Good answer. Diplomatic, but honest. I like it. I think we're gonna get along just fine, Your Lordliness.” Varric paused, frowning. “No, not quite. I'll have to work on it.” The dwarf walked back down the stairs toward his customary place by the fire, waving over his shoulder as he went.

Tobias blinked owlishly. “I think he just threatened me.”

“I...” Max blew a breath between his teeth. “I don't know what to say. Varric isn't the threatening sort. I've never seen him do that before.”

“I like him.” The older man nodded decisively. “What combat experience does he have? Do you think he'd be amenable to providing me with a few references?”

“Maker's breath, tell me you're not actually recruiting right now.”

“Of course not, dear heart. I'm wounded you would think so. We settled on myself only for guard duty at present. I haven't forgotten. I'm merely being proactive about the future, you understand. Does he have any guard experience, by chance?”

“Toby!”

Tobias laughed. Maxwell groaned, unable to stop his answering grin. All this fussing over him was jarring, certainly, but...

He could definitely get used to it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It has always bothered me a little that none of the Trevelyans inquire about his well-being in any legitimate way whatsoever, at least, that we're told about. I understand why - because it would limit the sorts of back stories we could create our Inquisitors, but still. Your brother and/or son fucking bites it, then becomes the leader of the known world, and you're not just a LITTLE curious? 
> 
> It turned into this. And I actually love them, omg. This will probably become a series of shorts, because I have a ton of other ideas for how to incorporate Toby into the party, and the last thing anyone needs is another game novelization. You're welcome. Also: a moment of silence for that Inquisition guard in the beginning. Because anyone who has worked retail has been there.
> 
> In all seriousness, thank you so much for reading!


End file.
